"He said he was going to you."
"Zarato?" Titian started. "For the portrait--He will be there!"
Giorgione broke into a harsh laugh. "No portrait for Zarato!" He said it
exultantly.
"What do you mean!"
"He bears a beauty mark." He laughed again.
"You did not----?"
Giorgione glanced cunningly about the studio. His big face worked and
his eyes were flushed. He laid his hand on his lips.
"Hush!" he said. "It is a secret--I--she--branded him with this." A
piece of heavy iron lay on the sill--the wood near it blackened and
charred. He took it up fondly.
"Look!" He pointed to the fire-worn end.
Titian shrank back in horror. "You are mad!" he said.
Giorgione shook his head sadly. "I wish I were mad ... my eyes have
seen too much." He rubbed his hand across them vaguely.
"Sleep--" he murmured. "A little sleep." The potion was beginning to
take effect.
Titian laid him on the couch near by and hurried from the studio.
"Home!" he said to the white-robed gondolier who looked back for orders.
"Home! Row for life!"
A sense of vague horror haunted him. He dared not think what tragedy
might be enacting. A man of Zarato's proud spirit--"Faster!" he called
to the laboring gondolier, and the boat shot under the awning.
With a sigh of relief he closed the door of his studio behind him.... On
the couch across the room, his cap fallen to the floor and his arms
hanging at his sides, lay the young man asleep. Titian moved forward,
scanning eagerly the dark, handsome face. Deep shadows lay under the
closed lids, and a look of scornful suffering touched the lines of the
mouth. Slowly his eyes traversed the figure. He gave a start and bent
closer, his eyes peering forward.... The left hand trailing on the floor
was gloved, but above the low wrist a faint line shot up--a blotch on
the firm flesh.
With an exclamation of horror he dropped to his knees and lifted the
hand.
It rested limply in his grasp.
Slowly the eyes opened and looked out at him. A faint flush overspread
the young man's face. He withdrew the hand and sat up. "I came to tell
you the portrait--must wait," he said apologetically, "I fell asleep."
He picked up his cap from the floor and smoothed its ruffled surface. "I
must go now." He looked awkwardly at his friend and got to his feet.
"Zarato," said Titian sternly. "Where is she?"
He shook his head. "I don't know," slowly.
"You don't know! She has left home----"
"But not with me."
The two men stood staring at each other.
There was a sound of steps in the hall and the door swung open. It was a
group of Venetian boatmen, bearing in their midst a wet, sagging form.
The red-gold hair trailed heavily. They moved stolidly across the room
and laid their burden on the low bench. The oldest of them straightened
his back and looked apologetically at the wet marks on the shining
floor.
"He said to bring her here, Signor." He motioned clumsily toward the wet
figure. "He said so."
"Who said it?" said Titian harshly.
"Signor--The Signor--Giorgione.... We took her there. He would not let
us in. He stood at the window. He was laughing. He said to bring her
here," ended the old man stolidly. "She is long dead." He bent to pick
up the heavy litter. The group shuffled from the room.
Slowly the young man crossed to the bench. He knelt by the motionless
figure and, drawing the glove from his hand, laid it on the breast that
shone in the wet folds.
"I swear, before God--" he said ... "before God!" He swayed heavily and
fell forward.
The artist sprang to his side. As he touched him, his eye fell on the
ungloved hand.... Shuddering, he reached over and lifted the glove from
the wet breast. He drew it over the hand, covering it from sight.